


No one's daddy

by Miouhaneun



Series: The Forgotten People [3]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Action/Adventure, Family Drama, Gen, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-07 14:43:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16855918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miouhaneun/pseuds/Miouhaneun
Summary: "What were ya thinkin’, dyin' like that? No word from ya for years, and now ya expect me to raise your pup, Kuchel. Is this all the love ya had for me?" - Kenny AckermannIt might have seemed a strange thing for someone like Kenny to do; taking Levi in, caring for him and teaching him how to survive. But it was not a random thing, not at all...





	No one's daddy

**Author's Note:**

> Kenny finally went to see his sister, but he came too late - This is a more in-depth look on what happened the day Kenny Ackermann, fit to be no one's daddy, met Levi for the first time.
> 
> Teens and up for a fair amount of swearing!

There’s a dog eating out of a pile of garbage on the street corner. It’s a thin, mangy thing that looks as if it’s on the brink of death. Its neck and shoulders bear the marks of gnashing teeth and raking claws. How the wretched creatures have not died out down there is a small wonder. The flea bitten and emaciated mutts roam around eating from people’s trash and excrement, reproducing, brawling and dying noisily by the hundreds; and yet there’s always more of them ready to go through the same cycle of birth, decay and inevitable end. In some ways they fare better down here than the people do. Many gutless bastards don’t really have the stomach for this place, would rather starve than eat their filth and their own dead young like the mutts do.

He leaves the dog be, not caring one bit whose shit the thing’s eating. His walk is slow and leisurely.

_Ignorant pricks think you’re a weak target if ya walk like some slow shiteater, like you’ve got so much air in between your ears ya can’t possibly focus on puttin’ one foot in front of the other any faster than an imbecile counts up his coin._

He had gotten his first kills that way; milling about, letting the pigs come to him.

_They turned into scared little piggies after that, always comin’ down here in groups of five or ten as if a whole pack of swine would stand a better chance at bestin’ the wolf._

Although he supposes that is all done with now: Grandfather’s been dead for years and the MP’s don’t hunt him no more, not since he made the right kind of friends.

Dirty water sloshes down the gutter. The surfacedwellers pump their filth and dirty water down through the underground where it pools in the streams and underground wells. Stinking poison is what it is. Those who can boil their water and those who can’t drinks and die - The circle of life. He supposes that at some point it passes farther down through the ground and purifies so the sky seeing people can pump it back up to the surface. Around and around it goes.  

_This place is a fuckin’ pigsty, no wonder the MP’s come down to wallow in the filth. It can’t be the brothels they come for; why would they want stinking poxy whores when they can have subtle powdered ladies from the surface? Nah, it’s gotta be the power they come for, the freedom to beat the dregs and the pathetic riffraff as a reminder of who rules the land they live beneath._

He used to live to teach them their power was that of ungulates trembling before the big bad wolf. Tearing down their neatly ordered hierarchy and spitting it in the face had been oxygen to his lungs… Now he serves their king, the irony.

He reaches the house he has been looking for and steps over the threshold into a small, shoddy room. The manager’s desk is in the back, and the same bald and toothlessly grinning man he’d seen last time he came by is bent by it. Several “ladies” lounge on the rugged sofas and chairs, smoking and babbling their dull witted crap that no one ever listens to. One of the women wears a moth eaten red corset.  She tries to catch his eye, holding her cigarette the way the sky seeing ladies do.

_As if puttin’ lace and high heels on a cow would make it somethin’ it’s not._

“I’m here to see Kuchel” he says to baldie. The man grins at him, showing all five of his remaining teeth, and begins to flip through the pages of his ledger; obviously not recognizing the name.

“Kuchel” he says daftly as though it is some high lingo spineless weasels like him don’t understand.

“Oh, if yer talkin’ about Olympia… she ain’t for sale no longer. Someone got ‘er sick a while back.”

“I ain’t interested in buyin’ her” he says in a low voice. The man wipes the smile off his face. “Where’s she?”

He stands outside the door to her “quarters” as the toothless man had put it. It’s a row of batshit buildings, low and squatting with identical doors. “Cells” would have been a more fitting name for them... _But ya might attract the wrong kind of customers if ya call them by that name, so “quarters” might as well do for it_.  There’s a dirty cloth hanging across the only window, and when he tries to peer in through it he sees nothing but darkness. He lingers with his hand on the handle.

_All the potential in the world and this is where ya end up; gettin’ the great pox from some old whoreson’s withered prick. Aren’t ya my little sister with the same blood in your veins? So much strength and yet ya chose to live on your back as some useless drab._

He opens the door.

The room inside is dark, the air stale. He steps inside and sees the contours of a bed at the back wall. There room reeks of mold and piss, but there’s another smell hiding underneath those two odors. As he draws near the bed, the unidentified smell grows stronger. He sees her shape on the bed now. The manager had not known how sick she was; as soon as he could make no money off her the bastard whoreson lost all interest in her. She lies very still with her eyes closed. Her skin is like parchment pulled tight across her cheekbones and forehead, her cheeks hollow and her lips are drawn up and back in a strange sneer. She reeks of putrefaction.

“Whoa” he hears himself say. He takes a half step back, looking at his little sister’s queer grin. “Whoa” he repeats over and over.

“Ya… seem to have lost a lot of weight… Kuchel” he says.

“She is dead.”

The voice comes from somewhere to his left, and he cranes his head around to see who had spoken. A small, filthy, and ragged thing sits there leaning against the wall. Its dirty hair hangs down across its face. He has no way of telling if it is a boy or a girl; the voice gave no clue, and at a quick glance a man could question if the thing is even human. How long has this kid been sitting here with its dead mother?

“And you? Are _you_ alive?”

The kid does not reply but lifts its emaciated face so that a pair of dull eyes stares up at him. The kid’s lips are dry and cracked.

“Whoa” Kenny says defensively. It’s not his fault the poor brat’s been sitting inside this tomb for so long. “Gimme a break. Ya understand me, right? What’s your name?”

“Levi” the runt says quietly. “Just Levi.”

_Ah, no last name. Ya didn’t want this brat to know that Kenny the Ripper was his uncle, is that it Kuchel? Ya squandered your life here, but bein’ my blood was beneath ya. Did ya really think ya could save him with shit like that once ya went and died this way?_

“I see Kuchel… Guess you’re right. It’s not even worth tellin’ me your name.”

He sinks down onto the floor, his back sliding against the wall on his way down. He had thought of coming sooner. He would have claimed to her that he was a changed man, though deep down he knows he is the same. Would Kuchel have thought differently of him if she had known of the friend he has made? She never knew that he ended the persecution of their family, or of how he has bowed his head and humiliated himself for the sake of a dream.

“I’m Kenny… Just Kenny” he says to the gloomy brat. “I… knew Kuchel. Nice to meet ya.”

The little runt stares at him sullenly. He’d tried to convince Kuchel to get rid of it, just drink a little Ferula tea and let nature run its course. She could have left this stinking whorehouse and let him provide for her the way a brother should. He’d told her she didn’t have to debase herself no more, and supposedly that was offensive to her because she had kicked him out. Now she’s dead, and all she’s left behind is this brat.

_What were ya thinkin’, dyin' like that? No word from ya for years, and now ya expect me to raise your pup, Kuchel. Is this all the love ya had for me? I ain’t equipped for this kinda stuff and ya knew that, but when did ya ever care for anyone but yourself? It broke grandfather’s heart, hearin’ that you were here spreadin’ your legs for every whoreson with a pocket’s worth of coin… What a waste. Ya should’ve had at least an ounce of strength from our blood, but ya squandered it. Ya thought I came to shame ya that time I asked ya to get rid of your brat and come live with me, but I was just tryin’ to give myself somethin’ worth changin’ for. Ya always saw me for the garbage I am Kuchel, and now ya want me to repay my debt this way? How unfair of ya…_

He rises and picks his bag up. With his right hand he pulls the blanket up to cover Kuchel’s face, then he turns and walks to the open door. The gloomy brat’s large, sunken eyes follow him as he makes his way through the room, but the kid makes no attempt to move or speak. For just one moment he considers leaving the damned runt there; kid looks half dead already... But the moment passes. He pauses by the door and turns to the child.

“Well, what are ya waitin’ for? Gonna stay here or come with?”

The kid’s reaction comes slowly. The brat gives him a dull look but begins to stir. It unfolds its papery thin arms and stretches its twig legs before climbing to its feet. Seeing it standing up Kenny deduces that it’s a boy. With a name like Levi it could have been either way.

“Ya gonna answer me?” he asks though it’s clear the brat’s gonna come along. Levi only stares at him sullenly as he hobbles forward on legs so thin they look like they might snap under him.

_Gonna have to feed this thing or the dogs are gonna think he’s their next meal. What a grim little bastard… Did ya ever think of what damage ya did to him with your way of livin’, little sister? Ya should have been responsible and come to me after he was born._

They step outside and he pushes the door closed behind them. The kid does not look around, which Kenny takes to mean he’s been outside before… which is good. The little shit’s morbid as it is without having been raised like some bat inside that damned cave of a room. They begin to walk down the street.

_That toothless shiteater is gonna have to clean his own damn house the day he finds the time to check on “Olympia”. What kind of a poxy whore’s name is that anyway, Olympia? Ya should’ve killed whatever bastard suggested it, Kuchel… not that ya ever would have done that._

He had gotten all the strength of their blood, but all the building blocks required to make a good man were missing from him. Kuchel had gotten all the other things their father and grandfather had had to pass down in turn; their kindness and loyalty, their pride and willingness to sacrifice themselves for others.

“Ey Levi. How old are ya?”

The kid walks by his left elbow, looking down at the ground as he makes his way forward. Kenny begins to think the kid’s not gonna answer when Levi parts his cracked lips.

“Don’t know.”

“Don’t know?!” Kenny hollers to lighten the mood, but the twisted brat does not seem enlivened. “C’mon, ya gotta have some idea?!”

“No” Levi sulks.

_Are all kids this pissy when they’re hungry? This is gonna get old fast…_

“Ya could at least try seem a little grateful that I didn’t leave ya to starve” Kenny grumbles. He takes a closer look at the insubstantial pup. “Ya look about seven to me, or you’re some midget in which case lyin’ about your age is gonna have to become a habit. No one’s gonna give ya an easy time just because you’re small, ya get me?”

The little mongrel either does not get him or does not deem him worthy of an answer. Kenny sighs and suppresses the urge to take the brat by the shoulders and shaking him as if trying to churn him into butter.

“Do ya know why your mother’s dead?”

That got the kid’s attention. The little brat turns his gaunt eyes with their deep hollows to him, giving him a dark look.

“She got sick.”

“And ya think that’s what killed her?” They are only a block from a tavern where he sometimes drinks and dices. “She got sick because she was a whore. Ya understand what that means?”

The brat nods.

_Ya had the decency to send him outside when the men came to your door, right Kuchel?_

“There are shiteaters who might offer ya money to do things to ya, ya get me?” he asks the kid who gives him a sullen look.

“If ya haven’t eaten in days it might not seem like such a bad deal, but if ya ever find yourself in a situation like that, think of your mother. She died because she useless, lettin’ people take advantage of her for a pocket’s worth of coin... Ya have to become strong to survive, Levi. Gut any whoreson who tries to buy ya. I’ll show ya how to.”

The corners of the little bastard’s mouth turn down and he presses his lips together in an expression that might be sad, it’s kinda hard to tell.

_This brat better not cry, I fuckin’ hate snivelers._

The bar’s a ragged place filled to the brim with the worst kinda scum you could imagine, but it kind of feels like a second home to him. The shutters hanging crookedly off broken hinges are always open, even when the place is closed, and the windowpanes are still whole instead of being stuffed with newspaper or boarded over like most other places on this block. It’s a shithole, but the regulars here think of it as their collective shithole and woe anyone who breaks the peace. Some douche caused a ruckus once and pushed over the old hag who runs the place; a very bad idea on his part. The regular crowd decided to tar and feather him, and he squealed like a stuck pig as his skin began to blister. Kenny himself took no part in it, the shitweasel had done nothing to him; and he makes it his business not to let others make their business turn into his business; but the shit had looked outright funny as he hobbled down the street covered in tar and feathers. They say the bastard caught a fever and died further down the line, good riddance.

“Oi” he shouts as he bursts through the door. “Gimme some of that disgustin’ sludge ya claim to be pork stew; this scrawny thing’s gotta put some food it its belly or it’s gonna shrink to peasize!” Only after the words have left his mouth does he think that he might wanna try refer to the kid as something else than “it”.

The old hag grumbles at his insult of her food, but knows by now that he ain’t one of them shits who try to get out of paying his way. She goes to yap at her manservant in the back room and Kenny makes his way through the crowded hall, using his briefcase to move the dregs outta the way. Time passes but people here still know him by his other name, “the Ripper”.

“Levi, sit your ass down here” he says to the gloomy brat and points to an open spot on one of the benches. The kid obeys, looking around at the gruff faces with dull, frightened eyes.

_Ah this ain’t gonna do, seen rats with more spirit than this little shit. What a spot ya put me in Kuchel; just what the fuck do ya expect me to do with this?_

He scratches his cheek with his dirty fingernails. Working for the king is no job for clean and prissy twats like the ones the MP’s hire. That’s why they needed someone like him; mudborn, not too good or too honorable for any of the dirty jobs that come with maintaining a monarchy… But while he works this gloomy brat’s gonna be left to fend for himself down here, and right now his chances ain’t looking so damn fine. He decides that starting tomorrow the brat’s gonna have to learn a new language, the only kinda talk the riffraff down here understands. If the pup has any of the Ackermann blood in his veins he’ll be a savant; the red poet of his time just like Kenny himself was. First they’ll go over the proper way to greet people, and then he’ll teach the little mongrel how to make people smile… from ear to ear. Who knows, it might even be fun.

The old hag’s manservant brings a bowl of “pork stew” – A specialty he’d bet his tight ass on that it’s rat stew. The slow dullard seems to be under the impression that he is the one who’s come to eat.

“The flux are ya shovin’ it at me for, do I look hungry to ya?” he says to the prickless sod who stupidly stares at him. Sure the gloomy brat’s small, but this idiot should be well versed in locating small things. Kenny smiles coolly, his voice becoming dangerously low. “I said, do I look hungry to ya?”

The man takes a little half-step back and pales considerably.

“F-for…?” he stutters and indicates the pathetic, half-dead looking creature staring at him with its haunting grey eyes.

“How perceptive of ya. Now get out of my face, or I might be gettin’ angry.” His grin widens.

It’s hilarious to see the man almost trip over himself in his hurry to get away. A word, a look, a smile from him is enough to make the gutless cowards tremble in their boots. You would think that life down here would temper the survivors, but at some point the useless dregs began inventing systems around themselves to allow them to grow soft-limbed with mush for brains.

“I don’t want no little pup goin’ and shittin’ all over my floor, so ya better eat carefully” he says to the kid who looks from him to the stew, then back at him again as if wondering whether or not it’s poisoned.

“Eat!” he hollers at the gloomy brat, seeing him flinch at the loud noise. “Or ya’ll never grow. You don’t wanna end up some damn midget do ya?!” He laughs merrily and sees the kid pick up his spoon and begin to eat tentatively.

He orders a mug of ale, or at least a mug of what the hag claims to be ale, and he and the rest of the tavern watches the little wretch eat. Harald the Hand and Brokeneck Curt finds him later on; two hairy bastards he knows from the good old days; and together they drink and reminisce. He finds himself in an excellent mood, and in his mind makes a vow to track down the old whoreson who got Kuchel sick. Maybe he should let the gloomy little bastard poke him full of holes; that might cheer him up. It seems like an excellent idea.

Hours later he is so drunk his head is spinning. Half of the old gang are sleeping with their heads rested against the table, and he considers using one of the empty stew pots as a drum to see if that would liven things up a little. If there’s one thing he really hates it’s a man who can’t handle his drink… Actually, scratch that. There are plenty of things he hates, but milkdrinkers are definitely up there in the top five. He rises from his seat, stumbles and is close to falling when he remembers the kid. Groggily he looks around, not really sure where he saw last saw Levi.

“Levi” he bellows, stumbling around in the hall looking for the little shit. He walks right into a row of benches and stumbles slightly. When he straightens again he sees the kid sitting in the exact same spot he had left him. Levi’s knees are pulled up against his chest, and he watches Kenny approach warily.

“Have ya been sittin’ there all along?!”

The brat’s eyes are dark and accusatory.

“Ah, c’mon!” he holds his hands up defensively. “Cut me some slack, kid. I ain’t good with this kinda stuff.”

“How did you know my mother?” the kid asks sullenly. So he wasn’t being pissy because he was hungry after all.

“I told ya I knew her. C’mon now, time to go.”

“Go where?”

“To my place. I told ya I wasn’t gonna leave ya to die on the streets and I’m a man of my word.”

To his surprise the brat makes no fuss but simply stands up and follows behind him. What a little weirdo. He doesn’t know much about kids, but he’s pretty sure they’re not supposed to stay in the same place you leave them for very long.

He pays on the way out, remembering at the last minute that he has left his bag somewhere inside.

“Ah shit” he mumbles and scratches his head. “Get comfortable kid, this might take a while.”

“I know where it is” the gloomy brat says, and to his surprise the totters over to one of the benches in the back, returning with his bag in hand. He takes it, giving the kid a look that makes him shrink back slightly.

“I didn’t ask ya to get it for me, did I? If I catch ya runnin’ around doing favors for people like some damned servant I’m gonna have to teach you a hard lesson.”

The kid’s eyes fill with tears.

“Ah what, you’re gonna cry now?! Wishin’ your mommy was here to comfort ya?” he jeers, thinking the kid’s gotta toughen up.

_This place don’t care about your feelings. If they see tears they will tear ya apart. Ya can’t be the sheep, ya gotta become the wolf or you’ll end up like my little sister did._

He bends so that their faces are levelled with one another.

“Wipe your eyes kid. I can teach ya the skills ya need, but ya gotta do the rest yourself. See these men sleeping with their heads in their cups?”

Levi wipes his eyes and shoots a look towards the sleeping scum.

“I can come here to relax and drink because every single one of these shiteaters’ is so scared of me they’re pissin’ themselves. Power Levi, ya gotta have power. Without it ya will die with your guts in your hands.”

“Power” the brat says tonelessly.

“That’s right” Kenny says as he straightens himself. “Stick close to me now.”

Kenny had kept grandfather’s old dump of a home after the old geezer finally kicked the bucket. It ain’t much in the way of comforts and quite frankly the place looks like shit nowadays, but it’s a convenient home for him now that he spends so much time on the surface. Uri’s brother Rod tried to bribe him with the offer of a citizenship and a home above ground once, thinking he’d care for petty crap like that. He’d told that bastard where he could shove those papers. Accepting gifts from that mewling shiteater like he is some fancy whore just ain’t gonna happen.

He leads Levi through the front door, kicking a pile of dirty clothing out of the way as he enters into the only room that is in use. The old geezer’s bedroom is a place he never enters; so he sleeps, washes, and heats up the occasional meal here in the front room.

The kid crisscrosses between the heaps of dirty linen and unwashed dishes as if he is afraid he’ll contract some kind of plague if he touches anything. Kenny kicks off his boots and flings his coat over the back of one of the two chairs positioned by a small, rugged old table at the center of the room. He detaches the switchblade he keeps strapped to his forearm and throws it across the room. It produces a dull ‘thunk’ as it buries itself in the opposite wall. He had never been one to carry guns, though nowadays his position at the king’ side often requires him to. Killing with a gun only comes down to the act of noisily slaughtering a senseless beast. The knife is an entirely different story; it’s killing often bordering on being intimate and personal. It could deliver swift and harsh judgement as well as any gun could do, but it could also wrap its victim in a deathly shroud without making a single sound. It could be made to whisper softly to its victims, or to carve pieces out of them if the circumstances required such actions.

“The back room’s off limits. Find ya someplace to sleep, I don’t give a rats ass where.”

He falls down atop his narrow bed, greeted by the familiar smell of his own sweat and dirty sheets. The damned gloomy brat does not answer him this time either, but who cares? Kenny’s all talked out for today; now he wants to sleep. He’ll take the kid outside come dusk tomorrow, put a shiv in his hand and show him how to angle it. He has a nagging feeling that kids eat a lot, and especially this one looks like he might need a good meal, but this whole deal ain’t gonna be some domestic affair. The little runt’s gonna have to learn how to feed himself for the most part. Better not be too friendly or the shit’s gonna think he’s gotta a new daddy to feed, clothe and coddle him. His little sister might not have approved of this intended treatment of her offspring, but she shoulda thought of that before she spread her legs to that poxy whoreson who got her killed.

_Kuchel… ya coulda done so much better._

For just one moment he wonders if he could have done better; used his strength to save her, but what would have been the point of that? She chose her life. He closes his eyes, drifting into the murky waters of intoxicated unconsciousness.

Levi is left standing in the middle of the room with his arms wrapped around himself as if he is feeling cold. The mean man snores heavily where he lies on his shoddy mattress. The boy looks around the dark room to find a place to sit, but everything in here is dirty and cluttered. He does not move for a long time. In time he picks up one of the mean man’s shirts and crawls into the only soft chair in the room. It is old and smelly, just like the shirt is, but he curls up in its seat anyway. He pulls the shirt over himself and sits there, looking out into the darkness.

For days he has stayed mostly awake, only drifting in and out of exhausted sleep a few moments here and there; sitting up the entire time. Last time he had gone to sleep his mother had been there to say goodnight to him, and that he should not worry because she was feeling better… But when he woke up, she was dead.

He imagines that the snoring man on the bed is her, and he feels just a little bit better. 


End file.
